


the haunted winds whine

by SeasideFantasties



Series: Terrorfest Fills [2]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Survivor Guilt, Traumatic Dreams, haha just kidding.....unless???, some much-needed talking about feelings, what if....we cuddled in victorian lodgings....and we were both men.....
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-12-28 01:14:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21128360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeasideFantasties/pseuds/SeasideFantasties
Summary: Having returned to London, James Fitzjames lives with troubled thoughts and even more troubled dreams.He doesn't exactly feel like some dashing hero.(Day 2 of Terrorfest, prompt is "never sleep again")





	the haunted winds whine

James hadn’t considered it to be a problem, at first.  
  
Many of the men who had returned home from what little was left of the Expedition likely lived with troubled dreams, after all. After all that they had seen and endured together, mental trauma of varying degrees was bound to be a unifying factor. The last time they had all been in contact with each other, Goodsir- now several degrees lighter than he had been when first stepping aboard _Erebus_, sporting a scraggly beard and with the circles under his eyes a few shades darker- had admitted that he thought he’d always be haunted by the sight of Irving’s body, cut open like a rack of meat, or even of events that had happened even earlier. Carnivale, for instance, or the way David Young had screamed in terror at something only he could see before collapsing and dying. And though the James Fitzjames of earlier years may have scoffed at the notion of being so deeply affected by their travels- the one that still thought they would succeed somehow, that the ice would melt and allow them passage- the version of himself that existed now knew better. There was no going back, after the terrors that they had experienced. And nothing would ever be the same.  
  
The dreams had been mild, at first. Opening his eyes late at night and finding himself back in the barren field of ice, for example, with the icy wind howling all around him as the ships cracked and groaned under the stress of the pack. Sometimes he would hear the roar of that wretched creature that had taunted them for so long in the distance, but would be utterly unable to discern just what direction it was coming from, blindly fumbling for a weapon that he no longer held in his panic. Distressing, but easy enough to distract himself from, especially with the whirlwind of both court martials and public appearances that he and the others had been subjected to ever since their return to England. It had been harder for James to slip on the mask of being a perfect English gentleman than it had been in the years before the Expedition (especially after what he had confessed to Francis during their walk back from the cairn, and especially after his realization that he no longer wanted to be a man who had to strive to correct the mistakes that his father had made), but the parties and plays were still a welcome reprieve from the troubles of his life, still a way to distract himself from how tangled his thoughts had been as of late.  
  
If he denied the fact that anything was wrong for that much longer, perhaps the darker areas of his mental state would wither away altogether.

But matters had gotten worse, in recent times. Not only did he now live with affected physical health, walking with a cane on the days when the cold weather of London would aggravate the break in his leg received from tumbling into the rocks- and he shuddered to remember those days, laying limply in the hauling sledge as Francis kept insisting that there was still time, something that James himself could scarcely bring himself to believe as he directed his bloodshot eyes up to the sky that he’d thought he was seeing for the last time- and having to deal with a feeling not unlike pins and needles racing through the arm where his old war wound had opened up, but the dreams had grown worse as well, more vivid and violent. Sometimes it was Sir John looming before him like some great formation of ice, an impassive look on his face as he berated James for not trying to save more of the men, for falling in with a man like Francis, for any number of transgressions that his mind deemed fit to conjure up. Sometimes it was the creature from the ice finding him no matter where he tried to hide, dragging him out of his hiding place with its hulking claws before clamping its jagged teeth around his skull. Sometimes it was visions of his own death, bleeding out from his old war wounds while Francis sobbed above him and recited words of prayer.  
  
Most often, it was visions of the men who had perished at Carnivale. Surrounded by blackened pieces of wood and sail that still smoldered in the midday sun, they would lumber forward to approach him- some without eyes, some with jaws broken or lolling open unnaturally, but all of them with horrific burns that peeled the skin back from their bones, all of them smelling like roasted pork in such a way that it made James’s stomach turn just to think of it. _You killed us_, they would hiss, pointing rotting and accusatory fingers at him. _You killed us. You with your delusions of grandeur, you with your need to compensate for everything in your life. Did you really think that a **party **would be enough to save us from our fate, to distract us from the fact that we were going to walk thousands of miles over ice and rock? You should have seen the signs. You could have stopped this. But you let us die. You let us **die**-_  
  
Inevitably, he would wake up from those dreams in a start, obsessively running his hands through his hair and along his side to ensure that liquid wasn’t seeping from those areas again before laying there silently, trying and failing to wrestle his breathing back under control. Then he would spend the rest of the night either writing letters to the parties he had still bothered to stay in contact with after his return or reading any number of books that he kept within his rooms, his eyes skimming over the pages but not actually digesting any of the material. Convinced that closing his eyes again would make the images that he had seen sear themselves even deeper into his mind, James would sit awake until morning, sometimes nursing a cup of tea or a few biscuits if he possessed an appetite. Then he would go out into the world, trying his best to hide just how badly affected he was by all that had occurred.  
  
A part of him was ashamed that he was reacting in such a way to what were more or less only a series of bad dreams. James Fitzjames, hero of the Opium War and now of the Franklin Expedition, did not succumb to something as shameful as _bad dreams_. He had gotten through worse than this before, using nothing but his own intellect and will, and walked away with nary a scratch on him to prove that he had suffered through such hardship. Even though he now lived life as a borderline cripple (and likely in his eyes only, for others that he came into contact with only seemed to view his injuries as yet another war wound that he had sustained, another story for him to tell), he was determined to not show the depths of his turmoil on the outside. What reason did he have to live in turmoil over the events that had transpired? He had not lost a family member- he had no real family to speak of anymore, with the Conninghams having passed on years prior and William having his own life to attend to now- had not been forced to fall in with Hickey’s band of mutineers and commit unspeakable acts, had not even had the knowledge that all of the men were depending upon him to get them home safely and in one piece that Francis had possessed.

His only fault was commanding that blasted Carnivale to be held, and of nearly dying after dragging the sledge with his open war wounds for so long. What reason did he have to be suffering? What reason did he have to long for someone to confide in? The other men of the Expedition had their own lives to go back to, had their own duties to attend to, and they would not want him to come to them with worries that they themselves already carried with them. Logically James knew that he could not deal with the trauma on his own, knew that he could not keep his sleepless nights a secret for much longer- but who could he possibly go to that he had not told the details of his trauma to about a thousand times over? Unlike the stories of his war exploits, no one would want to hear how he was suffering from sleepless nights and aches in his limbs. It could be seen as fishing for attention, and he would not allow himself to fall back into the same habits that he had been adopting before the Expedition.  
  
His morning rituals and daily walks through the local park were how he had stayed sane, thus far, but anyone who was allowed to get close enough would likely see the dark circles under his eyes that grew wider with every passing day, or the constantly haunted look in his eyes, or the way his limbs often trembled as though they were struggling to hold him upright. Fear of another party stopping him and asking him unwanted questions kept his pace brisk as he walked- or as brisk as it could be while he relied on a cane to help keep his steps steady- his head down and posture hunched in an attempt to make himself look as unwelcoming as possible. If he gave off the aura of a man who did not wish to be disturbed, then most people would be wise enough to leave him well enough alone and take their questions about the course of the Expedition to another party.

(Besides, he was getting damned tired of lying to everyone, telling them that it had been starvation and exposure that had killed them rather than the heat of flames or hungry teeth and claws. Telling them that it had been a sudden illness that had struck Sir John down, when he could still remember the ripped-off limb of the man he had looked up to for so long lying in the snow, the red of blood and exposed tendons seeming even more startling among the barren landscape-) 

Shuddering to himself, James drew his coat about him all the more tightly, trying to shake such thoughts away from the forefront of his mind as he began to hobble towards the path that would lead him home. It would take him longer than it had before the Expedition to make his way back to his rooms, and he would like to start such a process before it had a chance to grow dark, before he was left limping through the streets like a drunkard who had been thrown out of the nearest pub-

“James? Is that you?”  
  
For a moment, he nearly startled, his expression instinctively tightening as he turned towards the party in question. Bitter words almost sprang onto his tongue, about to lash out against the repetitive questions that he knew would be coming- only for them to wither and die in his throat once he realized just who it was. Francis Crozier had somehow come across him in his walk through the park, wearing an outfit much more formal than anything James had seen on him before- likely some kind of donation from a well-meaning member of the public, or else purchased out of necessity rather than genuine want for the articles, since the _Terror_ captain had made it quite plain how much he detested formal wear unless it was absolutely necessary. Ordinarily James would have been pleased to see his fellow commanding officer- the two had grown closer than ever after surviving the horrors that the Arctic had brought, even after the talk they had had during the lonely walk to the cairn, where James had confessed his deepest secret and Francis had supported him in turn. The fact that they had so easily gone from being enemies to close friends still sent a wave of shock through James’s system whenever he cared to dwell on it, but the closeness of their current relationship was something he found himself treasuring above all else.  
  
But now, Francis was the last person he wanted to see. The man who had always been so quick to see right through all of his bluster could not be allowed to see the true depths of his turmoil in that moment, for it would only lead to questions that James would rather not have answered. The situation called for some degree of etiquette to be observed, however, so rather than spitting out terse words James simply offered a small smile to the older man, one that he hoped would reach his eyes in that moment. “In the flesh. Or what’s left of it, I suppose. What brings you out here on this-“ He squinted through the fog that coated the city in that moment, gesturing vaguely with one arm. “-lovely London evening?”  
  
“In truth, I was hoping to clear my head. Consider some things, perhaps,” Francis replied, shifting his stance slightly. “I can’t quite bring myself to return to my old rooms. Too stinking of alcohol and melancholy. The search for new ones has left me rather indecisive. Thought that by taking a walk I would be able to come to a decision, but the blasted weather hasn’t helped one whit.” He squinted critically at James then, his blue eyes seeming even more piercing in the low light. “And what about you, James? Are you faring well?”

_Not in the slightest_, he wanted to say, but the words refused to leave his lips. As usual, he was too wrapped up in his goddamned pride and stubbornness to be willing enough to let his guard down and admit that he’d been suffering on his own for quite some time. So instead of immediately confessing himself as a part of him wanted oh so desperately to do, James simply continued to offer a smile to the _Terror_ captain, hoping that by shifting his weight slightly he could hide the exhausted tremble of his limbs. “Yes, I am. Keeping myself busy, as much as anything. I know how much you must miss my tales of grandeur-“ Trying to make a joke out of the situation? God, but he really had hit rock bottom. “-but I’ve been preoccupied by other matters as of late. Trying to find new rooms of my own, for example-“  
  
“_James_.” The word wasn’t nearly as snappish as an actual command would have been, but it was still enough to make James immediately stand to attention out of instinct, trying to straighten his posture as much as he could while relying on the support of a cane. He was still pointedly avoiding meeting Francis’s gaze in that moment, but he could somehow sense the intensity of the older man’s scrutiny even still. “You’re not well, any fool with half a brain could see that. You look like you haven’t slept in days. You’re just barely holding yourself upright, and believe me, I’ve seen the sight of that enough that I never want to see it again.”  
  
The reminder of just how close he had come to being at death’s door was just another nail in the coffin, making him flinch away from Francis for a split second. “I-“  
  
“Do you think I haven’t felt melancholy of my own enough that I can’t recognize it in others?” The tone was still somewhat sharp, but even as James listened it became quieter, more softly pleading than anything else. “Please, James. God knows you’ve already suffered enough without me being able to do anything about it. I thought we’d earned the right to not keep secrets from each other. Whatever you’re facing, you need not shoulder the burden alone.”

Damn it, but he should have suspected. Francis had always been able to see right through him, even from the beginning, and James shouldn’t have considered this encounter to be any different. He didn’t rightfully know what it was about the older captain that made him so skilled at tearing down every kind of wall that a person had ever bothered to build around themselves, but unlike how it may have been with other parties Francis had always been gentle about such matters with him, had always made it clear that he didn’t need to confess his doubts unless he felt like doing so, and unlike what he had feared as a result of confessing the secrets of his past to someone, the _Terror_ captain had not judged him for it, simply decided to support him all the more fiercely. And when he dared to look up and meet Francis’s gaze then, he saw much of the same emotions that he had seen at the cairn, so long ago- no traces of anger or doubt, instead showing a man who both wanted to understand the burdens of his fellow men and support some of the weight in turn. Weaning himself off of the crutch of alcohol had done wonders for the older man’s approachability, and it showed in the nearly tender way that he was gazing at James now, every bit the caring captain that he had ever had the potential to be.  
  
Lord, but it made him want to confess himself in that moment. God only knew how badly he’d wanted somebody to understand what he had been going through, and now Francis was here, one of the few remaining people who could identify with all the turmoil of his present life. Never mind that his struggles might pale in comparison to everyone else’s, never mind that he might be seen as foolish for confessing worries that were likely on the minds of every other survivor- James had stopped caring about such things long ago, when he’d been so convinced that he would be laid to rest in the barren waste of the Arctic instead of the green soil of London. The Arctic had taken any sense of shame that he may have felt over his actions away, any kind of vanity away, leaving him raw and exposed and more than willing to confess his shame to others.  
  
And Francis had earned that confession about a dozen times over, at this point. If anyone had earned the right to share in his burdens, it was the man who had become one of his closest friends.  
  
So it was that he finally slackened his posture slightly, speaking his words in a hushed undertone that gradually grew louder the longer he went on. “Truthfully, I…I haven’t been sleeping well, as of late. At all, really,” he whispered, taking Francis’s nod of silent understanding as a sign to continue. “Every time I close my eyes, I see myself back _there_, in the cold and the wastes. I see the ships being crushed to splinters again. I see that beast from the ice coming after me, with nowhere to hide and nothing to defend myself with. I see myself dying there, bleeding out from that damned musket wound, or the men that died in Carnivale blaming me for their deaths. For being foolish enough to believe that a _party_ would save any of them.” The words came out in a borderline hysterical rush, and James found himself taking a shallow breath in an effort to stabilize himself then, resisting the urge to start pacing like some great jungle cat in a cage the longer he went on.  
  
“I won’t sleep, because every time I close my eyes I see myself back there. I don’t know how I _expected_ to have restful sleep, after everything that happened. But a part of me is convinced that I don’t deserve to mourn, or feel distressed over what occurred. It’s a foolish part, that much is true, but…for God’s sake, Francis, I don’t even have a proper family to go back to like the rest of the men do. You alone know that much. I have no great estate tied to my name, or much of anyone who might have mourned me had I perished there. Even William has his own family to attend to now. What right did I have that gave my life more precedence than theirs?” His gaze directed itself downwards again, afraid of what confessing such a foolish belief might lead to. “I am glad to be alive, yes, but sometimes I feel that I would gladly have traded my life for one of the many men who died if it meant that their family would get at least some form of closure. My thoughts on the matter have been so tangled lately that it scarcely feels as though I can breathe.”  
  
Fighting the urge to wince as another bout of pins and needles raced through his injured arm- it had been aggravated by the cold all morning, and there had been absolutely no sign of its improvement since then- James finally finished, his voice soft and wavering once again. “So there you have it. I live with troubled thoughts and even more troubled sleep, while thinking that somehow I didn’t deserve to survive the expedition. It’s foolish, isn’t it?”  
  
“No, James, you foolish young-“ An exasperated breath, and then Francis was continuing, his voice sharp but in a way that let James know that the anger was not directed towards him. “No, it’s not foolish. I know exactly how you feel. Any man that made it home from that blasted place knows exactly how you feel. I live with tormented dreams too, James. Do you think that I don’t feel the loss of our men just as profoundly? When you say that you would have traded your life away to save any one of them…I have felt the same way. I feel as though I’ve robbed families of having a happy reunion, in spite of myself. How do you go on, knowing that some of those under your command lost their lives despite you fighting against it with all your might?” He jabbed his finger towards James then as if to emphasize his words, his voice tight with barely suppressed emotion. “I understand more than you could ever know, James, because I struggle with those same thoughts every night, and I find myself utterly unable to find anyone who might be able to empathize. Until you came along, at least.”  
  
To say that James was floored in that moment would have been a grave understatement. A part of him had still foolishly been thinking of Francis as the distant, stoic captain that he had first been when they had first set sail on the Expedition so many months prior, and though Francis was far from being the person that had drawn himself so far into a shell of depression and self-loathing anymore, James had still been afraid of what the response to his confessions would be. But it seemed he needn’t have feared. As always, Francis knew exactly where he was coming from, and could empathize and offer comfort in a way that only he could. It felt as though a weight had been lifted off of his shoulders as he stood there, and though his arm and leg still ached James somehow felt lighter than he had in months.  
  
“Perhaps we should each follow your own advice,” he suggested mildly after a moment, having to suppress a chuckle when Francis looked up at him in surprise. “We don’t need to face this burden alone. We were stronger as a unified group, back in that place, and I can’t imagine why the same logic wouldn’t apply now. If we can alleviate each other’s burdens in some way, we’ll be better off for it.”  
  
“I imagine we will be, yes.” A beat, and then Francis was squinting through the gloom that lined the city, his voice low. “I can’t very well ask you to walk all the way home in this weather. That leg of yours must be paining you. I saw how you were wincing as you walked through here.”  
  
Only the knowledge that Francis didn’t say the words to pity him kept James from snapping out a terse response. “I wouldn’t want to impose,” he said mildly, taking up his cane in preparation to head off once more. “And I’ve kept you long enough as is. We can set up a future appointment, should you want to keep-“  
  
“Nonsense. The housekeeper won’t mind another presence in the house, especially after having to deal with my moods for so long.” Francis extended a waiting hand to James then, his expression soft. “Come, James. Let me begin an honest _attempt_ to help you, at least.”

Truthfully, James only had to hesitate for a moment, for his mind had already been made up. Taking Francis’s hand in a gentle yet firm grip, he allowed himself to be led through the streets of London and back to the lodgings that Francis called home, his leg somehow feeling less pained than it had been in months. For the first time since their return to London, he finally had the feeling that something was settling into place, that some part of him that had been missing had finally been filled. That everything would be alright from now on, or at least as much as it could be in the wake of all that he had experienced.  
  
And later, when he laid with Francis in a shared bed, with one arm wrapped protectively around the body of the _Terror_ captain, James would experience a more restful slumber than he had in years.

**Author's Note:**

> So on account of my last fill just being pure angst I decided to make this one angst with a happy ending. Which is....sort of an improvement, I suppose. Honestly I just wanted to explore how the men would be affected by having returned from the Arctic after so long with their collective traumas and injuries, James included. We've discussed on Discord that his system would likely be messed up from the scurvy to begin with, and like...a man that was that obsessed with his own perfection likely wouldn't have been very willing to immediately share his traumas with the general public. 
> 
> Good thing Francis is there to....beat him over the head with friendship, I guess. In a kind way. 
> 
> Also are they just snuggling at the end or did more happen? Up to you to decide, dear reader ;) 
> 
> (Title comes from the poem "The Sinking of the Jeanette" by Joachim Ringelnatz hey look at that I didn't make the title a song lyric for once)


End file.
